


Buenos Aires

by toyhto



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Arthur's ex-boyfriend is an asshole, Eames can't mind his own business but he means well, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-15
Updated: 2019-07-21
Packaged: 2020-06-29 05:08:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19823200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toyhto/pseuds/toyhto
Summary: Arthur takes a job he shouldn't have. Eames is worried, and that's why he claims to be Arthur's boyfriend.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to write Fake/Pretend Relationship about these two. Here it is. Also, sadly, I don't know anything about Buenos Aires. This story is going to have three chapters in total, and you can say hi to me on [tumblr](http://toyhto.tumblr.com) if you want to.

Arthur didn’t want Eames to take this job. That’s why he dropped a few hints that he might be staying in the States, laying low in between the jobs. Officially, he’s in Germany. No one and certainly not Eames should know that he’s in Buenos Aires, in a half-empty office building with no air conditioning. No one should know except for Peter, Marianne and probably the client. He made sure no one could trace him, and he’s _thorough._  
  
“Arthur, my darling,” Eames says in a voice that doesn’t give away at all that there’re two guns pointed at his head, “you look soaked. But good, of course. As always.”  
  
“Eames,” Arthur says, and after a few seconds, Marianne puts away her gun. Peter doesn’t.  
  
“Perhaps you should wear less clothes,” Eames says, winking at him. It’s so absurd and also, it’s making him feel better about this fucking mess. “I wouldn’t mind.”  
  
“Arthur,” Peter says in a tight voice, and Arthur tries to keep his face calm. There’s no reason to let Eames know how much it shakes him that Peter’s saying his name at all, not alone this way, like he’s about to slap Arthur on the face. Not that he ever did, though.  
  
“It’s alright, darling,” Eames says in an impossibly reassuring voice, and Arthur flinches anyway, because _of course_ Eames saw his face when Peter said his name. Eames misses fucking _nothing_. “I already told them I’m your boyfriend.”  
  
Arthur blinks. “What?”  
  
“Your boyfriend,” Eames says as easily as if he was talking about the weather. “I _know_ you like to keep things private, darling, but it’s just that they were pretty surprised when I showed up. I told them you didn’t tell me where you were going, and they wanted to know why I came here anyway, so I had to explain.”  
  
“You shouldn’t have come here,” Arthur says, slowly. “And I didn’t tell you where I am. I was supposed to be in San Francisco –“  
  
“Darling, you always forget that I know you,” Eames says, his eyes fixed on Arthur’s. “I can tell when you’re lying. I’ve got to admit, though, that this time it was quite difficult to find you. I almost didn’t. But I missed you like hell, so I kept trying.”  
  
“Arthur,” Peter says, “you can’t seriously –“  
  
“It’s okay,” Arthur says, even though it clearly isn’t and it’s not up to him, anyway, “it’s alright, Peter. It’s true. I didn’t tell him about this job, of course I didn’t, I fucking tried my best just to disappear, he just… he just has this habit of following me everywhere.”  
  
“Because we’re in love,” Eames says.  
  
“Arthur?” Peter says. He sounds a little confused now. Better that than angry.  
  
Arthur clears his throat. If only it wasn’t January in Buenos Aires, and if only the building wasn’t lacking air conditioning, and if only he wasn’t soaked with sweat, then maybe he’d be able to say this with a little more dignity. “Yeah. That, too.”  
  
“Really?” Peter asks. Marianne has taken a few steps aside and is still watching them, but at least now she doesn’t look like she’s wondering if they ought to shoot Eames. She looks like she’s wondering what Arthur and Eames do in bed, which is much less prone to get Eames shot and possibly was what Eames was trying to achieve all along.  
  
“Yeah,” Arthur says, taking a few deep breaths, “yeah. You know I like to keep quiet about this kind of things.”  
  
“Yeah, I know,” Peter says, and there’s a look in Eames’ eyes that says _how does he know?_ Arthur ignores it. Then, thank God, Peter puts his gun away. Eames doesn’t even blink, like all this time he’s been sure no one is going to get shot at, the fucking idiot. Arthur surely wasn’t. “Anyway,” Peter says in a somewhat rushed voice, “he’s in now.”  
  
“No,” Arthur says.  
  
“Sorry,” Peter says. He doesn’t sound sorry. “He knows too much.”  
  
“He doesn’t know anything,” Arthur says.  
  
“I know something,” Eames says. Arthur glares at him. He’s going to fucking _kill_ Eames later, and Eames probably knows it, that’s why Eames is grinning at him.  
  
“I’m going to kill you later,” Arthur says.  
  
“I know, darling,” Eames says, and then, when Arthur bites his lip not to say something about how Eames doesn’t know _at all_ what kind of a mess he’s managed to get involved in, Eames turns to look at Peter. He has his hands in his pockets even though it seems there’s not even a gun in there, and he keeps his shoulders turned to Arthur as if he didn’t know at all that Peter’s the one he should be wary about. He doesn’t look threatening at all. God, he’s good. “Listen, whatever this job is about, I want in. I know there’re risks involved because Arthur just fucking sneaked into the night instead of telling me, but the thing is, I’m here now, and there’re few jobs that wouldn’t go smoother with a forger. And I’m the best there is. But I bet you knew that already.”  
  
Arthur bites his lip. Eames smiles at Peter, looking so stupid, standing there in his khaki shorts and terrible, worn-out t-shirt, his cheeks flushed from the heat, wet patches sticking to his skin under his armpits. Also, he looks like he knows what he’s doing. That should be impossible.  
  
“Fine,” Peter says, and nothing changes on Eames’ face, no relief, as if he always knew this was going to work out, “but if something goes wrong, if you mess this up somehow, it’ll get you both killed.”  
  
“Sure,” Eames says, and now he at least throws a glance at Arthur, a glance that clearly says _so, this is that kind of a job._  
  
“Can I have a few minutes alone with him?” Arthur asks. His voice comes out strained.  
  
“Of course,” Peter says, sitting down in the nearest chair. “You can go to the bathroom. But don’t take too long.”  
  
  
**  
  
  
“So,” Eames says, walking to the bathroom that stinks of disinfectant, “the thing that you did in San Francisco, letting me know you were staying there, that was quite –“  
  
“What the hell?” Arthur asks, stepping to Eames, and the only reason he doesn’t grab Eames’ shirt and push him against the wall is that he has a bad feeling Eames might like it. “I didn’t want you to take this job. I didn’t want you to fucking know about this job.”  
  
“Arthur,” Eames says, easily as if someone didn’t just pull a gun at him, “darling, don’t –“  
  
“And what was that?” Arthur says, pushing into Eames’ personal space, even though clearly Eames is unfamiliar with the concept. Arthur clears his throat. He should keep his voice down, in case Peter comes to check on them. “What the fucking hell, my _boyfriend?_ ”  
  
Finally, _finally_ it looks like something sinks into Eames’ thick skull. A grasp of reality, perhaps. “Sorry about that. I kind of thought he’d shoot me.”  
  
“Well, I thought so, too,” Arthur says and takes a deep breath, and then another. Fucking hell. He’s been working this job for fucking three weeks and it’s been bad, but nothing’s been bad like this. His hands are trembling, and he can’t seem to find a way to steady them.  
  
“Darling,” Eames says, reaching for Arthur’s hands.  
  
“Listen,” Arthur says, putting his hands behind his back, only it makes him feel more vulnerable, “I’m bloody angry at you. I didn’t want you to get dragged into this, I didn’t anyone I know get dragged into this. How did you even find out what I was doing?”  
  
“I didn’t,” Eames says, watching him. “I still don’t, not really. But, you know, Ariadne.”  
  
“What about Ariadne?”  
  
“She was worried. She called you and you didn’t answer and when you did, you sounded like someone was holding a gun pointed at your head.”  
  
Arthur closes his eyes for just a second. He has a headache and he really needs to drink water and sit down and maybe sleep twenty-four hours, and nothing of that is going to happen. “I _didn’t_.”  
  
“You did,” Eames says, his voice soft and kind which isn’t _fair_ , “you aren’t half as good an actor as you think you are, and Ariadne knows you. So, she called me and I told her you’re a big boy and know what you’re doing and surely you’re alright. Then I tried to track you down and realized you weren’t in Berlin anymore, and that the subtle hints that you were maybe staying in San Francisco were kind of, I don’t know, not so subtle, and then it took me almost fucking three days to figure out that you’re here. But I’m not still sure why, and why your teammates looked quite eager to shoot me just a moment ago.”  
  
“This job,” Arthur says, taking a deep breath, “it’s pretty bad. You shouldn’t have come.”  
  
“And the thing is, I get why your teammates were suspicious,” Eames says, “because who takes a flight from London to Buenos Aires to check up on someone they occasionally work with? But for a boyfriend, maybe. So, that’s why I told them I was your boyfriend. Feel free to inform me how you would’ve handled the situation better.”  
  
Arthur swallows. His head feels weirdly muddy. “I think I need to –“ Only he doesn’t have time to sit down, before Eames grabs his shoulders, squeezing tightly enough that he doesn’t think he’s going to fall over. He lets Eames drag him to the nearest toilet stall and make him sit down on the toilet seat. His head is swinging and he’s fucking tired of all this.  
  
“Drink something,” Eames says and puts a plastic mug filled with water into Arthur’s hand. The mug doesn’t seem exactly clean but Arthur drinks the water anyway. “It’s pretty hot in here, isn’t it? It’s nice for a change. It’s been raining in London for three weeks now.”  
  
“Sounds nice,” Arthur says, closing his eyes. Just for a second.  
  
“Listen, you idiot,” Eames says, his hand coming to rest on Arthur’s shoulder, his thumb brushing against Arthur’s neck, “that bastard with bad hair, we can’t trust him, can we?”  
  
“Peter,” Arthur says and sighs, “no, we can’t. And not Marianne, either. She doesn’t want to be here, but… don’t trust her, either. It’s not really about them, though. The problem is the client. But… we can’t trust them anyway.”  
  
“So, it’s just the two of us,” Eames says. “We’ll figure this out and walk out of here alive, like we always do. I’d prefer if we got some money, too, but that’s negotiable. And by the way, we should sleep in the same hotel room. Just to make our relationship look convincing.”  
  
“Eames,” Arthur says, but Eames’ thumb draws a slow circle on his collarbone and he forgets the rest. And anyway, there’s no help in trying to talk Eames out of anything.  
  
“Also, if someone sneaks into to shoot me in my sleep, I’d prefer you to be there to save me.”  
  
“Fine.”  
  
“Great,” Eames says, his fingers brushing against the back of Arthur’s neck and then drawing back. “You look pretty pale. Just unbutton a little, darling. It’ll make you feel better.”  
  
Arthur bites his lip and opens a few top buttons of his shirt. That’s the least of his worries, anyway. When he stands up, Eames is watching him with soft eyes, as if he’s here to save Arthur.  
  
“Now,” Eames says, “could you look like you shouted at me about it first and then fucked me against the wall? You’re half-way there already, you look dead-tired. It’s only that you should look happy about it, too.”  
  
“Fine,” Arthur says.  
  
“Brilliant,” Eames says and pats him on the shoulder. “We’ll figure this out. Let’s go before they come to check on us.”  
  
  
**  
  
  
“So,” Peter says, “you and him.”  
  
“Yeah,” Arthur says, keeping his eyes on the screen. Eames is half-way across the room, reading the files of the job, but he can surely hear Arthur and Peter. “None of your goddamn business, though.”  
  
“I’m happy you found someone,” Peter says, hovering over Arthur’s desk, a little too close, “it’s just that he’s not your type.”  
  
“I don’t have a type,” Arthur says and clears his throat. “You don’t fucking know what my type is.”  
  
Peter chuckles. It shouldn’t make Arthur want to punch him on the face but it does. “Really? So, how long have you been together?”  
  
Arthur dares a glance at Eames, who looks somewhat interested. “I don’t know. A year.”  
  
“A year?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“You’ve managed to keep up a relationship for a _year?_ ”  
  
“It’s really not your fucking business,” Arthur says, “and if you keep harassing me about this, I won’t get this job done and I bet I’m not the only one who’s going to get shot.”  
  
“You always were so dramatic,” Peter says but backs away. Arthur takes a deep breath and glances at Eames, but Eames is staring at his laptop again.  
  
  
**  
  
  
It’s still too hot and the taxi is moving too slowly. There’s quite enough space in the backseat but Arthur can still smell Eames’ cologne and, well, sweat underneath. It’s barely cooler at all now when it’s almost midnight. Arthur blinks and turns to look through the windows, at the city. He hasn’t been here before but he’s kind of wanted to visit. Obviously not like this, though.  
  
“He knows you,” Eames says.  
  
“Don’t.”  
  
“Well, obviously he’s an idiot who doesn’t have a goddamn clue what you’re like. But the two of you have history.”  
  
“Come on.”  
  
“I’d say, maybe a few passionate nights after a successful job,” Eames says, “but I kind of think it’s more than that.”  
  
“Can you please at least wait until we get to the hotel?”  
  
“Fine,” Eames says, shifting on the backseat so that Arthur has to glance at him, just to make sure he’s not doing something idiotic, like rubbing his thigh with his gun. He isn’t. He’s staring at Arthur.  
  
“A few passionate nights,” Arthur says, and isn’t it pathetic that he can’t even say it like Eames, lightly and with a hint of smile, not alone _do_ it, “that’s not really my thing.”  
  
“So,” Eames says slowly, “it was more than that? Or less?”  
  
“At the hotel,” Arthur says, and surprisingly, Eames shuts up.  
  
They’re almost at the hotel, when Eames clears his throat. “Anyway, what’s it about passion that you don’t like? Might get your suits wrinkled?”  
  
“Shut up,” Arthur says.  
  
  
**  
  
  
It’s almost too easy. The bed in his hotel room was king-sized anyway. The elevator is empty besides them, but Eames comes to stand so close to Arthur that their shoulders brush. _I’m sure I smell awful,_ Arthur says. _Not at all,_ Eames says, watching him through the mirror. He looks nervous, Eames doesn’t. He looks tired, Eames looks like he’s on a holiday and has spent the whole day having fun and is prepared to have a long bath and drink half a bottle of whiskey. It should be irritating as hell. It shouldn’t be fucking _comforting_ that Eames is here, that Eames is going to share a hotel room with him and pull a gun at anyone who comes through the door.  
  
“Thank you,” Arthur says, when they’re in the room and he’s locked the door, “although I didn’t ask you to do this.”  
  
“You’re welcome,” Eames says and checks the bathroom, a gun in his hand and a patient look on his face. “I’m not doing this entirely for you. Ariadne was worried. Can we speak here?”  
  
“I checked the room three times and didn’t find anything.”  
  
“Great,” Eames says, kicking the shoes from his feet and sitting down on the bed. He looks like he’s out of place and doesn’t know or give a shit. “She told me she was trying to invite you to the kids’ birthday. You didn’t answer and didn’t return her calls.”  
  
Arthur goes to the bathroom and starts unbuttoning his shirt. It clings into his skin. He thinks he can feel Eames’ eyes on him through the open door.  
  
“Did you know I didn’t get invited?” Eames asks in a light tone. “I asked her about it. She said June complains that every time I see Ariadne, I try to make her do something illegal. Apparently, June doesn’t like that.”  
  
“Well, they’re married now. And they have kids.”  
  
“The kids are only turning one. They won’t remember their mom doing a few shady jobs in the dreamshare.”  
  
“I like June,” Arthur says, “I like that Ariadne’s in love with her.”  
  
“Yeah,” Eames says slowly, “but Ariadne still wants to build cities from scratch.”  
  
“Maybe they’d let you go to the kids’ birthday, if you promised not to talk about anything illegal.”  
  
“That’s probably impossible,” Eames says, “Ariadne always brings it up. Why did you take this job, Arthur?”  
  
Arthur leans closer to the sink and washes his face with cold water. Then he unzips his pants, tugs them down and steps out of them. He shouldn’t feel better, not with Eames watching him from the bed, but he does. Of course, it’s just that the heat is too much for him. Maybe if they sleep with the window open, it’ll be fine. They’re in the fourteenth floor, so it seems improbable that someone will come through the window. “I was stupid.”  
  
“No, you weren’t,” Eames says, his voice slow and patient, as if he’s trying to coax it out of Arthur, no matter how much time that takes. “You never are. And you never take jobs like these, not since you quit working with Cobb, and it’s been five years. And even Cobb wouldn’t have taken this one. Do you know about the client?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“So, you know the last time someone did an extracting job for them, they went missing afterwards?”  
  
Arthur takes a deep breath. “Eames –“  
  
“Don’t _Eames_ me, darling,” Eames says, standing up and walking to the doorway. He stops there and leans his shoulder against the doorframe. Arthur could walk past him if he wanted to. Eames would follow him, of course. “You can tell me now and then have a nice cold shower, and then we can go to sleep. Or I can keep asking for a few more hours.”  
  
“I didn’t really have a choice,” Arthur says, looking at himself in the mirror. His eyes are a little red. “And I tried to keep you out of this.”  
  
“That’s just bullshit,” Eames says, “of course you had a choice. Maybe not a good one. But you had a choice.”  
  
“Peter has something on me.”  
  
For a second, Eames stays quiet, as if he’s trying to figure out what to ask next. Maybe it’s _what_ or _why_.  
  
“So, he knows you,” Eames says, “and it’s not like you were friends.”  
  
Arthur bites his lip. “Not exactly.”  
  
“Well, I knew he was an asshole,” Eames says, shifting his weight from one foot to another on the doorway.  
  
“What? Because he was with me?”  
  
“That’s your type, isn’t it?” Eames asks, but his voice is tired now. “So, what does he have on you?”  
  
Arthur blinks and then turns away from the mirror. Eames is just a few feet away from him and he’s not wearing any clothes besides his underpants, but Eames’ gaze is fixed on his eyes anyway. “I was with him years ago. Before… before Mal died. And after. He knows of a few jobs that I did with Cobb.”  
  
“So, if you don’t do this for him, he’s going to go to the police. And if you do this for him, the client is going to get you assassinated.”  
  
“Maybe not,” Arthur says, “and…”  
  
“What?”  
  
He stares at Eames for a few more seconds. Eames is frowning at him, looking genuinely worried, and in some other circumstances he might laugh, because isn’t it funny? Eames and he, in a hotel bathroom in Buenos Aires, in January when the heat is at its worst? Eames, watching Arthur as if it’s his mission in life to fix Arthur’s problems? Eames, wearing shorts and a t-shirt, his forehead glistening and his hair thick with sweat, and still somehow looking good, like he could just go to the bar downstairs and flirt a little and have anyone he liked?  
  
“Cobb,” Eames says, and now for the first time he sounds actually irritated, “you’re still protecting Cobb, you git.”  
  
“He can’t go on a run again.”  
  
“He wouldn’t want you to do this just so that he can stay at home with his kids.”  
  
“You don’t know that,” Arthur says, “and anyway, he’s not going to get to choose, because I didn’t ask him.”  
  
“You’re so stupid,” Eames says, “I don’t fucking know why I followed you to the other side of the fucking globe.”  
  
“Yeah,” Arthur says, “me neither,” and for some reason, that seems to shut Eames up. Through the ceiling there comes a voice that sounds like fucking, a woman getting closer and closer. Possibly faking. Not that Arthur know what women sound like in bed. He takes a deep breath, feeling impossibly tired. “I’d like to take a shower now.”  
  
“Fine,” Eames says but doesn’t move, “we can talk about your idiocy later.”  
  
“Maybe you could get the fuck out of the bathroom so that I can be alone.”  
  
“Really?” Eames asks but takes a few steps back. “Just don’t drown yourself in there. I’m not angry, I’m just worried.”  
  
“I’m not worried that you’d be angry at me.”  
  
“But you look really worried,” Eames says, and then Arthur shuts the door.  
  
  
**  
  
  
“When was the last time you slept in the same bed with someone?”  
  
“Really?” Arthur asks, turning to look Eames. They’re in bed now, blankets pushed to their feet because it’s still too hot. Half an hour ago, Arthur was sitting in the chair next to the window, trying to check a few things on his laptop, when Eames came from the bathroom drying himself in the towel and asking where his socks were. It’s weird. It’s weirdly familiar, the way Eames talks to him and the way he snaps back at Eames. They’ve been doing it for years, of course, but it should feel different now that they’re sharing a hotel room.  
  
“I’m just making conversation,” Eames says, leaning onto his elbow. He has broad chest with awful tattoos, and Arthur doesn’t have a clue whether he knows the tattoos are awful or not. Also, he’s not tanned at all, so he’s probably really been in London for some time. He has a scar on his left shoulder that Arthur’s never asked about, and another on his left nipple that looks like maybe there was a piercing once. Weird. “Or are you going to fall asleep? Because I don’t think so. You look quite awake, staring at my nipples.”  
  
“What?” Arthur blinks. “No, I wasn’t.”  
  
“Darling,” Eames says.  
  
“Did you have a piercing?”  
  
“Yes, I had,” Eames says, tilting his chin. “Want to see a picture? Because sadly, I don’t have any.”  
  
“And I never asked you about that scar on your shoulder.”  
  
“You could, though.”  
  
Arthur stares at him.  
  
“Or not.”  
  
“How did you get that scar?”  
  
“I was stabbed,” Eames says, his voice low and soft, “in Istanbul, in a bar, where I was snitching wallets.”  
  
“I thought you were an excellent thief.”  
  
“I am. But in a process, I tried to hit on someone. He really liked me but didn’t like realizing he liked me.”  
  
“Shit.”  
  
“Yeah. But I don’t usually make that kind of mistakes. It was just that I was young then. Couldn’t tell who to hit on and who to leave be.”  
  
Arthur takes a deep breath and rolls onto his back.  
  
“So, this thing you had with Peter,” Eames says, lightly, “was it serious?”  
  
“No,” Arthur says and closes his eyes. “Yes.”  
  
“You didn’t realize he was an asshole?”  
  
“He wasn’t. I think.”  
  
Eames is quiet for a few seconds. “But it ended? You aren’t still –“  
  
“No.”  
  
“Thank God,” Eames says, and then cocks an eyebrow when Arthur glances at him. “If it should happen that we’ve got to shoot him. I wouldn’t want to shoot your boyfriend.”  
  
“Maybe,” Arthur says, “maybe if I was still with him, he wouldn’t have been so nice to you when you claimed to be my boyfriend.”  
  
“Ah,” Eames says, “he was being nice to me? I didn’t notice. I was a bit busy, with him rubbing his gun at my face and all that. But about that other thing –“  
  
“What other thing?”  
  
“You don’t mind,” Eames says, shifting closer to him. “You don’t mind that I said I’m your boyfriend.”  
  
“I’m fucking angry at you to following me when you certainly knew I didn’t want you to know what I –“  
  
“No, you aren’t. You aren’t angry.”  
  
Arthur clears his throat.  
  
“I think we should make it look convincing,” Eames says, “like, maybe I could once in a while touch you. Or maybe you could touch _me._ That’d be better because you never touch people unless you have to. You could pat me on the shoulder, or if you can bear it, put your hand on my back.”  
  
“You already call me darling.”  
  
“Yeah. You can call me that, too, if you want to.”  
  
Arthur bites his lip. Eames grins at him.  
  
“Well,” Eames says, “if Peter actually knows you, he’s going to know you’d never call me _darling._ But maybe, just maybe it’ll happen that we’re going to have to kiss. Could you stand it?”  
  
“Are you trying to flirt with me?”  
  
Eames laughs. “Normally, when I try to flirt with someone, I don’t ask if they can _stand it_ if I kiss them. Normally, I don’t know, I talk to them a little and they begin fantasizing about me putting my hand in their pants.”  
  
Arthur swallows. “And how do you know?”  
  
“Well, they might stare at my nipples, for example.”  
  
“So, you usually flirt without a shirt?”  
  
“Yeah,” Eames says, looking disturbingly glad, “of course. I think my upper body is quite nice. At least compared to my shirts.”  
  
Arthur almost can’t bite back the grin. “I can’t really disagree with that.”  
  
“But you,” Eames says, “I bet you always flirt with your suit on, the whole suit, your shirt buttoned all the way up, and your tie in place, because if you tried, I don’t know, if you tried flirting with nothing but your boxers on, lying in the bed with someone with no blanket and with nothing to cover yourself up with, you might feel a bit nervous about it.”  
  
Arthur takes a deep breath. “About what?”  
  
“Flirting.”  
  
“I can flirt.”  
  
“Yeah, I know,” Eames says and sighs, “I _know,_ darling. Did you love him?”  
  
It takes him a few seconds to realize what Eames just asked. “Really? You want to know?”  
  
“Yeah. In case I shoot him.”  
  
“You should probably avoid that,” Arthur says. “No. I don’t know.”  
  
“You don’t know now or you didn’t know back then?”  
  
“I can’t remember.”  
  
“Liar,” Eames says, watching him as if trying to see what’s inside, “but I like that. I’m going to figure it out anyway.”  
  
“You’re going to figure out if I loved Peter.”  
  
“Yes,” Eames says, and Arthur doesn’t know what to say to that, so he keeps quiet until he thinks maybe they aren’t about to say anything else. Then Eames takes a deep breath and says, “have you thought about that if the client has us both murdered, we’re going to miss Ariadne’s kids’ birthday?”  
  
“No, I haven’t.”  
  
“You should probably start thinking about it, then.”  
  
“She’d be so angry,” Arthur says and closes his eyes. “I can’t sleep like this.”  
  
“With the window open?” Eames says, shifting closer to him. The mattress creaks. Arthur thinks he can feel the warmth of Eames’ body radiating but that’s just stupid, that’s just him imagining things. It’s been a long time since he’s been in bed with anyone. “Or in this heat? Or when there’s a gorgeous British man sleeping right next to you?”  
  
“I think,” he says, his eyes still closed, “I think, the latest.”  
  
Eames is silent for a long time. “You flirt very well, darling.”  
  
“Thank you.”  
  
“It’s a good thing indeed that I know you don’t mean it.”  
  
“Yeah, it is,” Arthur says and rolls onto his left side so that he’s facing the window. Maybe Eames is so close to him that if he shifts a little, Eames’ arm will brush against his back. Maybe he’ll wake up to Eames’ hand on his elbow or Eames’ legs entangled with his. That’d be fucking awkward. But it’s been a long time since… pretty much anything.  
  
He wakes up sometime in the morning, too early to get up. The window is open and Eames is standing next to it, staring at the city. The sky is dark. Arthur sits up and Eames looks at him.  
  
“I’m not very good at sleeping these days,” Eames says. “But I’ll come back to bed in a minute.”  
  
“Fine,” Arthur says, goes to bathroom, takes a piss and tries not to think about how comfortable it is that Eames is here with him. Then he goes back. Eames is already in bed. Arthur crawls as close to him as he can get without actually touching him. Neither of them says anything. Arthur closes his eyes and listens to Eames breathing in a steady rhythm, until suddenly the sky is light blue and it’s the morning.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the kudos, guys, I hope you like this next chapter! After this, there's one more left.

“Darling, we’re going to be late.”  
  
“Not yet,” Arthur says, trying to push his hair back from his face, but a few strands always break free. “Really?”  
  
“Yes,” Eames says through the bathroom door. He sounds more amused than worried. “What’re you doing there anyway, having a wank?”  
  
“Of course not.”  
  
“But you had one yesterday evening. I could hear you.”  
  
Arthur takes a deep breath and glances at the mirror one last time. His hair isn’t behaving correctly but there’s nothing to be done about it now. “Fuck you,” he says as he opens the door. “I heard you this morning, but I didn’t say anything.”  
  
“Until now.”  
  
“Until now.”  
  
“You sound delightful, you know, when you’re trying to be quiet,” Eames says, walking to him and tugging at his collar. “We really need to get you a few t-shirts.”  
  
“I’m doing just fine. And a few more days and we’ll be done with this job.”  
  
“Hopefully. At least open a few buttons.”  
  
“Fine,” Arthur says, but before he can get to it, Eames raises his hands and opens the top button of Arthur’s shirt. The back of Eames’ hand brushes against Arthur’s neck. Arthur swallows. Eames is staring at his neck, or maybe at the buttons.  
  
“Like this,” Eames says in a smug voice, and Arthur realizes he’s unbuttoned the shirt almost all the way down to Arthur’s waist.  
  
“Fucking hell – I thought we were late.”  
  
“We are,” Eames says, “sorry, I’ll fix it for you. I just couldn’t resist the urge to, you know, to catch a glimpse of your nice smooth chest.”  
  
“You saw it earlier when I came from the shower.”  
  
“I just can’t get enough of you,” Eames says and buttons Arthur’s shirt up until there’re three or four buttons left. “Can you stand someone else maybe seeing your collar bone?”  
  
“We should go,” Arthur says and takes a step away from him. He’s almost sure Eames is using a new cologne now but he can’t bring himself to ask because then Eames is going to say something ridiculous, perhaps _oh, are you sniffing at me_ , or _I thought you might like this one._  
  
“Yeah, sure,” Eames says, “let’s go to work with your ex who still wants to fuck you.”  
  
“He doesn’t.”  
  
“He’s staring at me like he wants to get me shot and at you like he’s wondering what the hell is wrong with you because you’re letting someone like me fuck you.”  
  
“Maybe if you stopped calling me _darling_ in every other sentence,” Arthur says, opening the door and waiting for Eames to walk past him, but Eames stops in front of him and opens one more button of his shirt. “It’s not like we’re really together, Eames.”  
  
“Whoever in their right mind would think we were?” Eames says and starts walking to the elevator.  
  
  
**  
  
  
“Just a quick test run,” Peter says, stopping behind Arthur’s chair and staying there until Arthur can’t help but glance over his shoulder. Peter has his arms crossed over his chest, his posture stiff as if he’s waiting for someone to shove at him. He’s not looking at Arthur, though, he’s looking at Eames, who’s picking his teeth with a plastic spoon, his laptop balanced on his knee. “An hour and a half in dream time. Eames, you’ll spend the time going through your route and making sure your forgery is perfect. Me and Arthur will go through the same route we’re going to take with the mark, ending up in the room in the basement.”  
  
“Fine,” Marianne says.  
  
“Fine,” Arthur says.  
  
“Fine,” Eames says, pointing at Peter with the spoon, “but I don’t see why I can’t come with you and Arthur.”  
  
“Because you won’t be with us when we do this with the mark,” Peter says, sounding like he was waiting for an argument.  
  
“I will, half of the time,” Eames says, his voice light.  
  
“You can’t really take orders, can you?” Peter says, only now he’s looking at Arthur.  
  
“No, I can’t,” Eames says easily, “not from you. I take orders from Arthur very well.”  
  
“Do you?” Peter says, his voice cold.  
  
“Don’t,” Arthur says, looking at Eames, “darling.”  
  
Eames blinks. Then he looks confused. Then he looks happy. Then he looks like he just remembered they aren’t together, this is just Arthur trying to make it seem convincing because they’re pretending to be a couple for reasons that just now seem to escape Arthur’s mind. Arthur swallows and Eames smiles at him, and it looks genuine, but then again, everything looks genuine when Eames does it.  
  
“Okay,” Eames says. “I trust you.”  
  
“Good,” Arthur says.  
  
“You can’t really blame me for wanting to be around him,” Eames says at Peter, raising his eyebrows, “can you?”  
  
“For fuck’s sake,” Peter says and walks away.  
  
  
**  
  
  
There’s nothing wrong with the dream. It’s Arthur’s projections. The moment Arthur is alone with Peter, they begin gathering around them, staring at them, or _no,_ staring at _Peter._ Arthur tries to think that this is just for work, he’s worked with people he doesn’t like for hundreds of times, but it’s not working. Then a ten-something-year-old girl looking vaguely like Ariadne shoves at Peter and Peter fixes his eyes on Arthur. “Really?”  
  
“I don’t know why they’re doing that.”  
  
“Really?” Peter says. “Because I know.”  
  
“We should just get the job done.”  
  
“It’s not like I’m the one who has a boyfriend following him around like a love-sick puppy.”  
  
“Eames isn’t –,” Arthur says and swallows, “he’s not a puppy.”  
  
Peter laughs. It’s fine, though, for a while. Arthur tries to concentrate on the architecture, on the details, on the dream, and not on the way he sometimes thinks Peter’s watching him. It can’t be that Peter wants him back. But he always thought Peter was jealous of him, no matter what he did or didn’t.  
  
“I think there’s something wrong with him,” Peter says, when they’re in the last room. It’s in the basement. There’s mold in the walls and no windows. The smell of an old place lingers in the air. “Arthur, did you hear what I said?”  
  
“Yes,” Arthur says, walking around the room. “It’s got nothing to do with you.”  
  
“The way he keeps watching you,” Peter says, “he keeps watching you when you don’t see it. And he looks at me like he wants to get me shot.”  
  
“He said you look at him like that.”  
  
“Oh,” Peter says and laughs briefly. Then he walks to Arthur. Arthur takes a step back but there’s the wall, cold and wet and hard against his shoulder blades. Peter stops in front of him, too close, impossibly close. It’s better and worse than having someone unfamiliar standing so close. Peter still smells the same. Or maybe it's Arthur’s memory of Peter’s scent. They’re in a dream, after all. “Maybe I don’t like it,” Peter says.  
  
“You don’t like what?” Arthur says, pulling his shoulders back, but Peter is at least an inch taller than him. He always felt small when they were together. Sometimes it was good.  
  
“The thought of you being with him.”  
  
“You left me.”  
  
“You left with Cobb and didn’t tell me where you were going.”  
  
“I couldn’t,” Arthur says, “it was for Cobb, he was my best friend. My only –“  
  
“I was your boyfriend.”  
  
“I told you I was sorry.”  
  
“But it was always good in between us,” Peter says, “you liked it, didn’t you? The sex. It was always good. Even when I didn’t hear from you in weeks and then you just came back and had me fuck you in our bed.”  
  
“And meanwhile you were fucking other people.”  
  
“I said I didn’t hear from you in weeks.”  
  
“I said I was doing it for Cobb,” Arthur says.  
  
“I never lied to you.”  
  
“You left me.”  
  
“You were in fucking _Taiwan_ with _Cobb._ ”  
  
“Back off,” Arthur says, “just back off. And leave Eames out of it. I’m doing this one job for you and then I’m never going to hear from you again.”  
  
“Really?” Peter says, placing his hand against the wall next to Arthur’s face. Back then, it used to go a little like this. They’d argue about something, usually about Arthur being away with Cobb and not telling Peter about it, or about Peter fucking other men and telling Arthur about it, and sometimes they’d argue just about anything, just for the sake of it, and then Peter would have Arthur in the corner, his back pushed against the wall, like this, and Arthur’s heart would beat fast enough that sometimes he wondered if he ought to be worried, but at the moment it’d be a pleasant blur of wanting to fight or fuck, kick Peter in the groin or open his zipper and grab his cock. He always chose fucking.  
  
“Arthur,” Peter says.  
  
“Arthur,” Eames says, and it takes Arthur a few seconds to realize it’s really Eames, not a projection, who pushes the door in and rushes in, holding a machine gun. “What the hell is happening, your projections are going crazy out there. What do you -“  
  
“Eames,” Arthur says, but Eames is already aiming the gun at Peter.  
  
“What the fuck were you trying to do, you piece of shit, you utter –“  
  
“You’ll never have him,” Peter says, “not really, and you don’t have a fucking clue how much he loved me, he loved me like –“  
  
“That’s enough,” Arthur says and shoots both of them. Then he shoots himself.  
  
  
**  
  
  
He finds Eames on the balcony, smoking a cigarette. “I thought you quit years ago.”  
  
“I thought so, too,” Eames says, not looking at him. It’s late afternoon. At least the sun isn’t shining onto the balcony. Arthur sits down in a chair that wobbles but doesn’t break down. “What was he trying to do, down there?”  
  
“I don’t know.”  
  
“Because it kind of looked like he was pushing himself at you and you didn’t like it.” Eames glances at him. “Or maybe you liked it a little.”  
  
“It was kind of like that,” Arthur says in a tight voice but then again, if he can’t talk to Eames who’s already pretending to be his bloody boyfriend, to whom he can talk about? “In between us. In the end, at least. We were fighting and he’d come at me like that, pushy, and it’d get me going.”  
  
“But he never –“  
  
“Of course not. I was… maybe I was in love with him.”  
  
“He could still be a prick,” Eames says. “I don’t trust your taste in men.”  
  
“I don’t trust my taste in men, either,” Arthur says. “Can I have one?”  
  
“A man?” Eames grins at him and then passes him a cigarette. “There you go. But don’t ask for another because as you know, I quit years ago.”  
  
“I know.” Arthur lights the cigarette, takes a drag and coughs a little. “I haven’t been with anyone since him.”  
  
“What, you haven’t had sex in five years?”  
  
“I didn’t mean that,” Arthur says. “Two years.”  
  
“You should probably get laid.”  
  
“Probably. How about you?”  
  
Eames stares at him for a moment and then sits down in the other chair on the balcony. It has three and a half legs. “Maybe eight months.”  
  
“Eight months? You were in Moscow.”  
  
“There’re plenty of gay men Moscow.”  
  
“Not easy to find them, I’d imagine.”  
  
“They find me,” Eames says. “I’m gorgeous and quite clearly gay.”  
  
“I didn’t know when I first met you.”  
  
“Really? Isn’t it your job to find out things like that?”  
  
“Maybe I was young and sloppy,” Arthur says, “or maybe I was afraid I’d got it wrong.”  
  
“Because you just liked me so much and couldn’t bear the thought you’d be mistaken and I wouldn’t be into men at all.”  
  
“Something like that.”  
  
“Oh,” Eames says and pushes his feet forward on the floor, until the chair almost falls over. “Shit. But really, you don’t mean that.”  
  
“What was it, eight years ago?”  
  
“Yeah. You hadn’t met Peter yet, had you?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“So,” Eames says slowly, “ _so_ , if I had come at you, a little pushy but not too much, if I had crowded you against a wall like that, maybe called you darling a few times, I might’ve had a chance.”  
  
“Yeah,” Arthur says.  
  
Eames stares at him. “Fucking hell.”  
  
“The reason why I didn’t tell you about this job,” Arthur says, “besides that I was told I can’t tell anyone or they’ll shoot me, was that I knew you’d want to take it. And Peter would want you because, like you said, having a good forger on the board makes any job easier, and you’re the best. And you’d take this job because you’d think I was in trouble and you’d have this weird _a prince on a white horse_ kind of thing about it and you’d get dragged into it as well. And then if something happened to you, it’d be my fucking fault. And I have only three people these days, three people I sometimes call. Ariadne, Cobb, and you.”  
  
“So,” Eames says after a moment of silence, “you think of me as a prince.”  
  
“I said _you_ think of yourself as a prince.”  
  
“But you thought of me thinking of myself as a prince.”  
  
Arthur bites his lip but then smiles anyway. “That’s not how it goes.”  
  
“I think it goes exactly like that,” Eames says and puts the cigarette away. “Listen, I’ve been thinking. We should call Ariadne and Cobb before we do this job, because we’re going to be on the run afterwards.”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“We’re going to call them and tell them we’re fine but just can’t contact them for a while.”  
  
“They’ll worry.”  
  
“Not as much as if we just disappear.”  
  
“Have you thought,” Arthur says, “have you thought about where to go?”  
  
“Yeah,” Eames says, very slowly, as if something was weighting his words down, “but I think we can’t tell each other. And we can’t go together. Because if one gets caught –“  
  
“The other still has a chance.”  
  
“I’ll find you when it’s over, though. If you don’t find me first.”  
  
“Don’t go to Egypt. They’re still looking for you for that job three years ago.”  
  
“Shit, I was thinking about Cairo,” Eames says, smiling, and then blinks. “Don’t look, but Peter and Marianne are watching us through the windows.”  
  
“We should go back,” Arthur says. It’s going to be bloody hot inside, hotter than out here, and also he’s going to have to be around Peter and deal with the memory of having his back against the wall and Peter’s arm just next to his face, and Peter’s scent in his nose, familiar and frightening and enchanting in the way memories are.  
  
“I think,” Eames says, tilting his head to the right, “maybe you should kiss me. In case Peter’s wondering if you’re still into him.”  
  
Arthur stares at Eames. Eames stares right back at him. “You wouldn’t mind?”  
  
“Why the hell would I mind?” Eames asks. He’s laughing but there’s something odd in his voice.  
  
“Fine,” Arthur says.  
  
“Great,” Eames says, leans forward in the chair and then falls down onto the floor when the chair breaks down. Arthur reaches for him even though clearly there’s no point, Eames is on his knees already and coming towards him, which looks kind of absurd, but he can’t think about that now, his heart is beating so fast it feels like a health risk. Surely Eames isn’t going to kiss him like that, kneeling on the floor. But Eames grabs Arthur’s knees and then his thighs and pushes them apart enough to get in between, and then he’s right there, in Arthur’s personal space, and Arthur has his thighs pressed against Eames ribs, and he could easily push Eames onto the floor, he could if he wanted. Eames brushes his fingers against the side of Arthur’s face and then grabs his chin, and Arthur holds still.  
  
“Hold still,” Eames says. “I’m going to kiss you.”  
  
“Right,” Arthur says.  
  
Then Eames kisses him.  
  
  
**  
  
  
“So, that’s the way you like it, then.”  
  
Arthur’s brushing his teeth, so he just frowns at Eames.  
  
“Sex,” Eames says, stopping at the bathroom doorway. “Kissing. Your men. I don’t know. All of it. You like them pushy. So that you can push back, I suppose.”  
  
Arthur spends half a minute still brushing his teeth. Eames leans against the doorframe, seemingly content to just wait. When he first met Eames, he kind of thought Eames was always in a hurry, somewhere, anywhere, to do something that could never include Arthur. Eames flirted at Arthur easily enough that sometimes he wondered if Eames even noticed he was doing it, and then Arthur wondered if he was imagining things. He kind of wanted to ask Cobb but Cobb would’ve laughed at him and told Mal, and Mal would’ve told Arthur, sweetly and kindly, that there was no way he could be with Eames.  
  
Then he got to know Eames a little and realized Eames was irritating as hell and a bloody idiot who probably didn’t have a fucking clue he was constantly flirting at Arthur.  
  
“I don’t know,” Arthur says, putting the toothbrush away.  
  
“How can you not know?”  
  
“It’s different with everyone.”  
  
“But you and Peter –“  
  
“We were together for, I don’t know, two and a half years. It grew into something that was… we were angry at each other in the end.”  
  
“But you liked it,” Eames says. “Today, in the dream, you looked like you liked it.”  
  
“It was familiar.”  
  
“I just -,” Eames shrugs. “It’s interesting. I’ve known you for fucking ages and I don’t know what you like in bed.”  
  
“I don’t understand how the hell you’d know what I like in bed,” Arthur says. He should walk past Eames, to the bedroom, but then he’s going to have to get to the bed and lay down and pretend he’s going to be able to fall asleep, and he can’t do that just yet. “I bet you don’t have a clue what Ariadne’s like.”  
  
“Ariadne?” Eames stares at him with wide eyes, then laughs but there’s a sharp edge in it. “ _Ariadne._ For fuck’s sake, Arthur, Ariadne’s like my little sister, to think about her having sex –“  
  
“She’s not your little sister, though.”  
  
“Well, I don’t think about her having sex.”  
  
“But you think about me.”  
  
Eames watches him, tilting his head to the side. “Well, you’re, you know… you’re like that.”  
  
“Like what?” Arthur asks. He’s standing in the middle of the hotel bathroom in nothing but his underpants, he’s tired and has a mild headache from the dream and also probably because his heart has been running a bit too fast for the whole evening, ever since Eames kissed him on the balcony.  
  
“Well, a man, for starters,” Eames says and points vaguely at Arthur, at somewhere around his stomach, “and, you know, hot.”  
  
Arthur bites his lip. “Hot?”  
  
Eames looks at him, narrowing his eyes. “You didn’t know?”  
  
“I didn’t know I was hot? That’s not a… that’s not a _fact._ ” Goddamn, his heart is beating too fast _again._  
  
“But it’s not like you’re stupid or something,” Eames says. “You have _eyes._ ”  
  
“Right,” Arthur says slowly.  
  
“And,” Eames says, clearing his throat and pulling his shoulders back, “don’t you ever wonder what I like in bed?”  
  
“Not really,” Arthur says. He does, though. Or he did, when he first met Eames and thought about Eames pushing him against the wall and pushing his thigh against Arthur’s cock through the layers of fabric, so tight it’d make Arthur’s breathing get stuck in his throat. But that was a long time ago. He’s wiser now. And he’s been in a relationship and it ended badly, it ended him hurting in ways he hadn’t thought were possible.  
  
“I like,” Eames says, looking at the bathroom walls like he’s talking to them, or to an invisible audience, “well, I like tall, lean guys, preferably with dark hair. And dark brown eyes. Almost black. I like guys who squint in the sunlight, probably because they spend too much time inside with their laptop. And I like them to look like maybe they aren’t that strong, like, they don’t _look_ like they have a lot of muscle, but actually, if they wanted to, they could beat me anyway. At least if they could surprise me a little at the start. I like men who can use their gun but don’t shoot for fun. And who read books. Stupid books, like The Da Vinci Code.”  
  
“It’s a best-seller,” Arthur says, only his voice comes out a little thin, “and you got it for me last Christmas.”  
  
“As a joke,” Eames says.  
  
“What kind of a joke is that? I read it. It was _good._ ”  
  
“But I love it that you actually liked it,” Eames says, “I bought it for you and you read it and liked it.”  
  
“Maybe next time buy me chocolate and not a book, if you’re going to pick at me for reading it, afterwards.”  
  
“Next time I’m going to get you a pony,” Eames says, chewing his lower lip, “since apparently you think of me as a prince on a white horse.”  
  
“You should get me a horse, then,” Arthur says, “there’s a difference.”  
  
“I didn’t think you were going to be so picky.”  
  
“I’m extremely picky,” Arthur says.  
  
Eames opens his mouth and then closes it. There’s a window open in the room behind Eames’ back and the sound of traffic is like the sound of the sea at the coast, constant humming in the background. Eames clears his throat, walks to Arthur and then puts his hand on behind Arthur’s neck. “Picky, ha?”  
  
Arthur stares at him in the eyes. “You kissed surprisingly well, you know, for a man who was faking it. On the balcony, I mean.”  
  
“Really?” Eames says, his thumb running back and forth on Arthur’s skin, right behind Arthur’s left ear. “I haven’t kissed anyone in months. I thought I’d be out of practice.”  
  
“I’m not complaining.”  
  
“And you,” Eames says, “have you kissed anyone, I don’t know, in two years?”  
  
“Maybe not.”  
  
“That’s odd.”  
  
“I don’t really like kissing random people.”  
  
“I suppose you could’ve found someone who isn’t random,” Eames says, “someone who’d like to kiss you.”  
  
“There wasn’t really anyone up for the job.”  
  
“I bet _anyone_ would be up for that job,” Eames says. “Would you like me to, I don’t know, push you against that wall?”  
  
“I think maybe you shouldn’t ask.”  
  
“But you’d tell me if you didn’t want me to.”  
  
“I could probably beat you,” Arthur says, swallowing, “at least if I managed to surprise you at the start. I’m stronger than I look.”  
  
“I know,” Eames says, biting his lower lip, “I _know._ Just so that you know, violence in bed isn’t really my thing.”  
  
“Great. So that you know, you’ve been flirting with me ever since you met me and never done anything about it.”  
  
“Really?” Eames asks and then grabs Arthur’s shoulders, shifts his fingers as if trying to find the right places for them, and then, before Arthur can think about anything to say, squeezes and pushes Arthur back, and back, and back, through the bathroom and against the white tile wall, placing his palm on the back of Arthur’s head just in time so that Arthur’s head doesn’t hit the wall, but Eames’ hand does, and Arthurs’ back does. Then Eames is _right there_ , standing barely inches away from Arthur but not touching him, not touching him except for his hands that are stroking Arthur’s neck and shoulders. Arthur thinks somewhat vaguely that he’s almost naked and Eames still has his clothes on, but it’s alright, it’s perfectly alright. He shifts and Eames grabs his shoulders in a second and presses him against the wall again.  
  
“How do you do it?” Eames asks. “Tell me.”  
  
“You can fuck me.”  
  
“Oh,” Eames says, taking a sharp breath and then just grinning at him, the idiot, the stupid idiot that Eames is, and he’s been Arthur’s idiot for fucking _years_ now, “oh, really, can I? Just like that? Because there’s other stuff we can do, if you don’t want to… other stuff we could –“  
  
Arthur pushes at Eames but just enough to get Eames push him back against the wall.  
  
“Fine,” Eames says, a little out of breath. “ _Fine._ I’ll fuck you, then.”  
  
“Good,” Arthur says, breathing in and out. His heart is going crazy in his chest, but he’ll worry about that later. “Condoms and lube?”  
  
“Yeah,” Eames says and then frowns, “fuck, no, I think not, I didn’t... don’t you have?”  
  
“I was coming to work with my ex,” Arthur says, “I didn’t bring fucking _lube._ ”  
  
“So, we don’t have lube.”  
  
“And we don’t have condoms,” Arthur says, “you aren’t going to fuck me without a condom, unless you’re one hundred percent sure you’re clean.”  
  
“I’m not,” Eames says with a grimace, running his palms up and down on Arthur’s arms as if to caress him, maybe soothe him and his crazy heart down a little, “I mean, I’m not sure. It’s been a while since I’ve been tested.”  
  
“Maybe it was a stupid idea anyway,” Arthur says.  
  
Eames’ hands stop on his arms. “Really?”  
  
Arthur swallows.  
  
_“Really?_ ” Eames asks. “Because I didn’t think you’d be the kind who’d ask a friend to fuck them if they didn’t actually mean it.”  
  
Arthur takes a deep breath and then another.  
  
“And because,” Eames says and clears his throat, “because I don’t think it’d be a bad idea. I think it’d be the best idea either one of us has had in ten years. In a frightening way, though.”  
  
“Yeah,” Arthur says and nods, “yeah, maybe.”  
  
“So,” Eames says, placing his right hand on Arthur’s neck, holding his thumb against Arthur’s throat as if to feel him swallow, “so, do you feel like trying to find condoms and lube? Maybe we could buy them downstairs, in the loft. Or there might be a drug store nearby.”  
  
Arthur slowly shakes his head. “I kind of… I think that if I put clothes on and think this through…”  
  
“Yeah,” Eames says, “yeah, buttoning up your shirt never did you any good. You look kind of hot in those shirts, though. But, well. I don’t really want to leave you here half-naked waiting for me, as I run through the streets trying to find a condom.”  
  
“Yeah, you’d probably better not.”  
  
“So, I was wondering,” Eames says, his thumb stroking Arthur’s cheek now, “what would you say about kissing and maybe a hand job?”  
  
“I’d say,” Arthur says, slowly, “that it sounds pretty intimate.”  
  
“Like I was your boyfriend or something.”  
  
“Yeah. Like that.”  
  
“I could blow you,” Eames says, in a quiet voice, “but I’d kind of like to see your face. And maybe we could, you know…”  
  
“What?”  
  
“We could finish together. Unless one of us sprains his wrist.”  
  
“Well, it’s been two years for me,” Arthur says, “it’s possible that I don’t last as long as you.”  
  
“I can pinch you in the nipple,” Eames says, “to distract you. Unless you like that a bit too much.”  
  
Arthur opens his mouth and then closes it. He’s maybe smiling a little. The bright light of the bathroom isn’t doing any good for his headache and it’s getting, surprisingly, almost a little chilly in here now that he’s not actually wearing any clothes. His heart is beating a little slower but not much. “I don’t like _pinching._ ”  
  
“Oh, really?” Eames says, pressing his thumb lightly against Arthur’s lower lip. “Have you tried? Because it can be very enjoyable. Of course, your partner needs to know what he’s doing. Especially when it comes to pinching. Pinching must be done at the right time and at the right spot.”  
  
“Please, stop talking about pinching.”  
  
“It’s turning you on, though,” Eames says, stepping closer so that he can press his waist against Arthur’s cock through the layers of clothes.  
  
“I think you’re turning me on.”  
  
“Oh, shit,” Eames says, grinning, “I always wondered if I could.”  
  
“I’m wondering,” Arthur says and puts his hand under the fabric of Eames’ t-shirt, runs his fingers up on Eames’ back. He can feel the scars. “I’m wondering if we could take this to the bed.”  
  
“Can you walk?” Eames says and then kisses him.  
  
He kisses Eames and then pushes him back, to the door, to the room where the window’s still open and Eames’ gun is on the nightstand, to the bed where Eames lets himself be pushed onto his back and then flips them over, holding Arthur by his shoulders, pressing him against the mattress, spreading Arthur’s thighs and dragging his knee up until it brushes against Arthur’s cock and balls through the fabric.  
  
“I thought you were going to be nice about this,” Arthur says.  
  
“You’re going to have to ask nicely,” Eames says.  
  
“I’m not going to fucking _beg_ ,” Arthur says, presses his knees against Eames’ sides, pushes his elbow to the mattress and then flips them over. Eames goes easily enough and then just lies there, his chest rising and falling under the hideous t-shirt, his face sweaty and his hair out of control and his lips parted. He’s looking at Arthur like Arthur’s the best thing he could ever think of having. “You said, kissing and a hand job.”  
  
“Maybe I’m not in a hurry,” Eames says, running his fingers down on Arthur’s chest, reaching for the waistband of Arthur’s boxers. And then Eames’ hands are on Arthur’s waist again and his knee is pushed against Arthur’s chest, not very kindly, and Arthur’s being thrown over until he’s lying flat on his back on the bed again, and Eames is sitting on his waist. “Maybe I want to know you mean it.”  
  
“What do you want?” Arthur asks, reaching for the hem of Eames’ t-shirt and pulling it up until Eames gets the hint and takes the t-shirt off. “Do you really want me to ask?”  
  
“Wouldn’t hurt,” Eames says, grabbing Arthur’s wrists and pushing them back against the mattress.  
  
“Would you,” Arthur says and licks his lips, “would you kiss me?”  
  
Eames just stares at him.  
  
“Eames?”  
  
Eames blinks. “Yeah. Yeah, of course, darling. I didn’t think you’d –“  
  
“And,” Arthur says, “would you wank me? Please?”  
  
He can see Eames swallowing.  
  
“Please? Because I’m kind of dying for it in here.”  
  
“You little shit,” Eames says, out of breath, stumbles away from Arthur to get rid of his shorts and underpants, and Arthur stares at him because why the hell not, it’s not like he’s going to have to pretend he’s not interested. And then there’s Eames, climbing back onto Arthur and tugging Arthur’s underpants to his ankles and finally throwing them onto the floor, and then settling himself on Arthur. Apparently there’s going to be kissing involved, and maybe Eames will notice how fast Arthur’s heart is beating. Maybe. But now the tip of Eames’ cock brushes against Arthur’s stomach and he fucking flinches and can’t do anything about it, and Eames grins and holds him still and then kisses him and kisses him again, and it’s nothing like Arthur thought it’d be, which isn’t surprising at all because imagination never was his biggest strength. What he’s been thinking about is that Eames would kiss him. Like, on the mouth. With feeling. But this… this is…  
  
This is Eames, for _real_ , and he’s a little clumsy and in a rush and keeps biting at Arthur’s lips and then apologizing for it, and also he seems to have a thing for Arthur’s chest and shoulders, and he keeps stroking the side of Arthur’s face, and when he finally reaches for Arthur’s cock and takes it in his hand, he does it carefully. And then tugs. And then stops again. And then tugs. There’s absolutely no rhythm. It’s infuriating. It’s fucking crazy.  
  
“Please,” Arthur says, “would you please just –“ He reaches for Eames’ cock, and it’s, well, he thought it’d be a cock. Like cocks usually are. But the sound Eames makes – and the sloppy kiss Eames places on Arthur’s ear – and how hot and smooth… but he _knew_ cocks are like that, he just didn’t… he just couldn’t… and he knew Eames wasn’t circumcised but still the oddness of it… and Arthur is, and the way Eames keeps stopping and tries to spit on his own hand – “It’s fine. Just. Please.”  
  
“I don’t want to -,” Eames says and kisses Arthur on the chin, maybe aiming for Arthur’s mouth and missing because he apparently trying to stare at Arthur’s cock, “if it’s uncomfortable without lube–“  
  
“It isn’t. Just, please –“  
  
“Keep asking.”  
  
“You’re an idiot,” Arthur says. “Please. Please, just –“  
  
“We’re fucking going to – get out of this job – alive,” Eames says, breathing hard, “and I’m going to – fuck you and – take you to London and – there’s this bar that – has the best fucking chips in the – fucking _world_ –“  
  
“Please just shut the fuck _up_ ,” Arthur says, “and don’t tell me about chips, that’s just –“  
  
“They’re so good,” Eames says and kisses him, “so – good – and – Arthur, I think – I think I’m –“  
  
“We can’t – ruin the sheets – or else –“  
  
“Sorry,” Eames says, his fingers squeezing around Arthur, and oh fucking _hell_ he was going to say something but he can’t remember what that was, not a chance, not a… And then Eames is coming on him, and it’s messy and he hates messy but kind of loves Eames, isn’t that weird, only Eames is now kissing his neck and throat and chest and can’t really keep up the rhythm with his hand, so Arthur pushes it aside and grabs his own cock and comes in a few seconds.  
  
Well.  
  
Well, then.  
  
He tries to breathe but it sounds like he just ran ten blocks.  
  
“Oh, fuck,” Eames is saying, his mouth on Arthur’s ear, “you were so good, you were so fucking good, I knew you would be but I didn’t realize… I thought you’d be a little uptight and I… I never thought you’d _beg_ …”  
  
“I hate the mess,” Arthur says. There’s cum on his stomach, both his and Eames’.  
  
Eames stares at him for a second and then laughs.  
  
  
**  
  
  
“You two look happy,” Marianne says, watching them with narrowed eyes.  
  
“Not at all,” Eames says with a wide grin, “it’s just that the weather is so nice, exactly the same than yesterday. And my boyfriend here looks exceptionally great today, doesn’t he?”  
  
Marianne looks at Arthur, frowning as if she’s genuinely trying to figure out what Eames is about. Arthur gets back to staring at his laptop.  
  
“I just hope that he’d finally listen to me and wear a t-shirt,” Eames says to Marianne in a slightly worried tone, “or a top, even. He brought a few, I found them hidden in his suitcase, can you believe it? I know he likes his style but I keep telling him, _darling, you’ve got to mind the weather –_ “  
  
“Everyone,” Peter says, rushing through the room and stopping at Arthur’s desk. Arthur pulls his shoulders back. “Listen. The mark has booked himself a dentist in two days. That’s when we’re going to do this.”  
  
“In two days?” Arthur asks.  
  
Eames comes to stand at the other side of Arthur’s desk. “Seems a bit rushed to me, mate.”  
  
“Any trouble with your forging?” Peter asks in a sharp tone.  
  
“Of course not,” Eames says, placing his hand on Arthur’s shoulder, his thumb brushing against the skin next to Arthur’s collar. Arthur leans into the touch. Just a little. No one is going to notice, and what if they do, what then? “But this is a tricky thing we’re trying here. For a client who doesn’t like mistakes.”  
  
“Do you think I don’t fucking know that?” Peter asks and then takes a few deep breaths, steps back from Arthur and runs his fingers on the grip of the gun on his belt. “I know it. Fucking hell, I _know_ it. But he’s getting impatient. And this might be our only chance to get the mark alone. We just need to bribe the dentist.”  
  
“Impatient how?” Eames asks, his hand becoming heavier on Arthur’s shoulder.  
  
“Don’t worry about that,” Peter says in a tight voice. “We just need this job done. And then we can…”  
  
_Get shot in the face_ , Arthur thinks.  
  
“Leave,” Peter says.  
  
“I’ll have everything ready in two days,” Marianne says. “It’s no problem.”  
  
“We can do it,” Arthur says, placing his hand on Eames’ and slowly removing Eames’ hand from his shoulder. He lets his fingers linger on Eames’ wrists for a little longer than is necessary.  
  
“Fine,” Eames says, “fine, I just… I’m hungry. Darling, would you like to have lunch with me?”  
  
“I have things to do,” Arthur says.  
  
“Please.”  
  
“Okay,” Arthur says and stands up. Marianne is watching them. Peter is sitting at his desk now, tense and worried but clearly not about them but rather about the client. And the job. And why wouldn’t he be? He’s probably going to get shot first if this goes wrong and, possibly, if this goes right.  
  
  
**  
  
  
“It’s a little rushed,” Eames says, when they’re eating sandwiches in a park nearby.  
  
“We can do it,” Arthur says. “I’m more worried about what happens after.”  
  
“Yeah, me too,” Eames says, wiping mayonnaise from the corner of his mouth. “He’s fucking terrified of the client.”  
  
“Obviously.”  
  
“Do you know why he took this job?”  
  
Arthur shakes his head.  
  
“Blackmail, like yourself, or maybe he’s in desperate need for money.”  
  
“I really don’t know. It’s not like we talk.”  
  
“Did you keep in touch after you broke up?”  
  
“What’s that got to do with anything? No. Not at all.”  
  
Eames is watching him, a piece of salad on his chin and something unreadable in his eyes. “Why did he want you to take this job?”  
  
“Because I’m the best, I suppose.”  
  
“Not because he wanted to see you.”  
  
“Does he look like he wanted to see me?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“No,” Arthur says, glaring at Eames.  
  
“You just don’t see it, you idiot,” Eames says, raising his hand and running his fingers down on Arthur’s neck, then following the line of Arthur’s chin with his thumb. “He looks at you like he’s wondering why the hell he let you go in the first place and how he can get you back, and he doesn’t have a fucking clue about either of those things.”  
  
“We broke up because I couldn’t stand to leave Cobb alone after Mal died, and because Peter kept fucking other men when I was away.”  
  
“But you didn’t really stop being in love.”  
  
“I’m not sure if we were in love,” Arthur says, “maybe. I can’t tell anymore. But I’m not now. I’m not interested in him.”  
  
“Good,” Eames says, stroking Arthur’s lower lip with his thumb and then letting his hand drop. It ends up resting on Arthur’s thigh, strong and steady. “I can’t understand how you make your face so goddamn _smooth._ ”  
  
“I use better product than you.”  
  
“No, it’s got to be magic,” Eames says, gently squeezing his thigh. “We should go back.”  
  
“Yeah, we should.”  
  
“We’re going to get this job done,” Eames says, “and then we’re going to stay alive after.”  
  
“I think we should call Ariadne and Cobb tonight,” Arthur says.  
  
  
**  
  
  
“Hi,” Eames says from the bathroom, “I don’t suppose you bought condoms and lube.”  
  
“I’ve been kind of busy,” Arthur says. It’s not like he didn’t think about it, but Eames probably knows that already just by looking at his face.  
  
“I get it,” Eames says. “You want to see if we get out of this alive before you answer to my proposal. That’s very practical of you.”  
  
“I didn’t know you were planning to marry me,” Arthur says, and of course it’s a stupid thing to say, but it’s also worth it because of the surprise in Eames’ grin. Arthur takes a deep breath. “I can’t turn my brain off. Not until the job is done.”  
  
“I know, darling,” Eames says, coming to Arthur and sitting down on the bed next to him. “But I could try to turn your brain off for you.”  
  
“It wouldn’t work.”  
  
“For a few minutes, I think it might. Or however long you’re going to last when I blow you.”  
  
“Eames.”  
  
“Arthur,” Eames says and pulls his shoulders back. “You know I’m willing. It’s up to you.”  
  
“Fine. Just… _fine._ But you know I’m going to return the favor.”  
  
“Yeah, I know. I bet you’re going to do it just like you do everything else. So seriously that I’m going to worry your frown’s going to stick with you. And you aren’t going to have any imagination about it, darling, it’ll be like you’ve read a bloody manual.”  
  
“If you think it’ll be that bad –“  
  
“I didn’t say _bad_ ,” Eames says, laughing in a slightly nervous voice, and Arthur _knows_ he could easily cover the nervousness, so it must be that he’s letting Arthur hear it on purpose, “did I? It’s going to be _brilliant._ You’re going to be brilliant, darling.”  
  
“You can’t tug my hair, though. I don’t like it.”  
  
“Fine,” Eames says, leans closer and kisses Arthur on the mouth. “But I’ll go first.”  
  
  
**  
  
  
“It’s funny,” Eames says, his fingers going through Arthur’s hair but not tugging, thank God, and maybe Arthur shouldn’t be surprised that Eames _listened_ but he kind of is, “you know, it’s funny that we never did this before, because I always thought you were hot, in an uptight way of course, but still, incredibly hot, and clever, and witty, and always wondered what you saw in Cobb, and at the first times we worked together it was a bit disorientating, you know, you kept looking at me like you thought I was going to grab your shoulders and just kiss you, you were so _worried_ , and I’m an adult and all that but I still had a few hard-ons in very unfortunate situations, I’m surprised you never noticed, maybe it’s because I don’t wear madly tight trousers like yourself, oh _shit_ those trousers, and your ass, do you have a fucking clue what your ass looks like in –“  
  
“Eames,” Arthur says, pulling back so that he can speak, “I’m kind of trying to blow you here, so would you please just shut up?”  
  
“Yeah,” Eames says, stroking Arthur’s neck, “of course, darling, whatever you want, anything, you’re doing so good, you’re so brilliant, I can’t understand how you look so _concerned_ , but maybe it’s just your face. It’d be too bad if there was something wrong with my cock, because I really kind of wish you’d like me. Listen, if we don’t get shot in two days, I’d like to see you again, soon. This thing we’ve been doing for years, not seeing each other, not fucking, it’s just bullshit, isn’t it, because I like you, I like you more than other people, much more, I’m not sure I like anyone else, except Ariadne of course, but that’s completely different, I would never –“  
  
“If you don’t fucking shut up, I’ll bite you.”  
  
“Oh,” Eames says, closing his eyes and looking very happy. “ _Oh._ Fine.”  
  
  
**  
  
  
“Darling,” Eames says two days later, “it’s going to be alright.”  
  
Arthur stops buttoning his shirt. It’s still early in the morning, hours until they’re supposed to kidnap the mark. He could just suggest that they leave now. By the time Peter and Marianne would begin to suspect, Eames and he would be at the airport. When the client would hear about them bailing, they’d be on the plane. If they had luck. They might have a better chance that way. And Eames might be reckless enough to try.  
  
Arthur takes a deep breath. “Yes. I know.”  
  
“Good,” Eames says in a light voice. “I’m almost ready. We should go.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last chapter! I hope you guys like it :) I'm still having pretty intense shipping feelings for these two, so keep tuned for more stories about them in upcoming weeks/months ;)

Three months later, in a supermarket in L.A., Arthur stops at the magazine stand, wondering if Cobb knows how stupid he looks. How stupid and happy, to be precise, how _normal._ If Arthur didn’t know better, he’d think Cobb was just a regular suburb father buying groceries early in the afternoon when the kids are still at school. No criminal background, of course not, nothing to do with the dreamshare. A t-shirt a little too tight, shorts and sandals, stubble and somehow, impossibly, less wrinkles than when Arthur last saw him.  
  
When Cobb is done choosing apples and oranges and goes in between the shelves, Arthur follows him. It seems that there’s a discount on tomato soap. Arthur almost has to shove Cobb at the shoulder until Cobb notices who’s following him and jumps a little.  
  
“Oh, shit, I didn’t –“  
  
“Don’t,” Arthur says in a steady voice.  
  
At least Cobb seems to realize right away. He picks a can of tomato soap and begins reading the ingredients with an intense stare. “Alright?”  
  
“For now, yeah.”  
  
“They followed you here?”  
  
“I don’t think so. Just didn’t want to, you know. You and the kids.”  
  
“Yeah. Thank you. Cheese?”  
  
“Yeah,” Arthur says, and they walk to the cheese shelf. “Have you heard of him?”  
  
“Ariadne has,” Cobb says, “she thinks he’s alright. Apparently he sent her kids a late birthday present. Without a name, of course. Something funny and slightly offensive.”  
  
Arthur smiles before he realizes he’s about to.  
  
“I heard about the job. I heard it went fine but you disappeared afterwards anyway.”  
  
“Seemed safer that way.”  
  
“Probably, yeah. I trust you had a good reason for working for a client like that.”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“I also heard you were together.”  
  
Arthur takes a deep breath. “He made that up. We weren’t… it wasn’t…”  
  
A woman walks around the corner and looks at them. Cobb smiles at her.  
  
“I should go,” Arthur says.  
  
“Just so that you know,” Cobb says, rubbing his nose, “you have my blessing.”  
  
“I didn’t ask –“  
  
“I always thought you had a crush on him,” Cobb says. “Anyway, I’ll tell the kids you said hi.”  
  
“Thank you.”  
  
“Come visit when you can,” Cobb says and walks away.  
  
  
**  
  
  
He shouldn’t call Cobb, but it’s the spring in Stockholm, which means it’s cold and wet outside, and he’s been reading detective novels for a week now.  
  
“Dom Cobb,” Cobb says to the phone.  
  
“Hi,” Arthur says, smiling a little too much. “You really answer the phone with your name these days?”  
  
“Well,” Cobb says, clearly embarrassed but happy. “Where’re you? Not close?”  
  
“No. I’m bored.”  
  
“I bet you are,” Cobb says, and then Arthur can almost hear the smile falling off from his face. “Listen, I’m glad you called. They got Eames.”  
  
Arthur reaches for the gun on his belt. “What? Is he –“  
  
“He’s alright,” Cobb says and clears his throat, “well, he’s alive, and he’s… he’s going to be fine. They shot him at the leg. But he payed them off, apparently. Ariadne thinks he got himself caught on purpose.”  
  
“Ariadne –“  
  
“He’s staying with her and June.”  
  
Arthur goes to the kitchen, pours water in the glass and drinks a little. “So, he’s not hiding.”  
  
“From what I could figure out,” Cobb says, “Ariadne doesn’t let him leave. But he’s been there for a week.”  
  
Arthur leans his elbows against the counter. Eames has been at Ariadne and June’s place for a week. That’s plenty of time for the client to have finished him off if that was the plan. “Okay. Do you know –“  
  
“I think he tried to fix it for the both of you,” Cobb says slowly, “but he’s not sure if it worked.”  
  
“So, he’s not sure that I don’t get shot if I quit hiding.”  
  
“Pretty much, yeah.”  
  
“Okay. Fine. Do you…” Arthur takes a deep breath. “What about you? How are the kids?”  
  
“Apparently, Philippa has been bullying someone at school,” Cobb says in a worried voice, “I’ve been talking to her about it, of course, but I’m kind of clueless about what to do. It’s so stressful.”  
  
“I can only imagine.”  
  
“And James has toothache. We’re going to have to see the dentist and I don’t know how I can bribe him to do that. I probably shouldn’t bribe him with candy and ice cream, though.”  
  
Arthur bites back the laugh. “Thank you for that.”  
  
“You’re welcome,” Cobb said. “What’re you going to do?”  
  
“I don’t know,” Arthur says.  
  
  
**  
  
It’s raining a little. Arthur parks the car at the side of the street a few houses away, takes his suitcase and walks to the house. The apple trees at the front yard have grown since he’s been here. They’re covered in flowers now. He goes to the front door. If someone’s watching, they’ve seen him already. And he wasn’t particularly careful after the plane landed in Paris and he went to rent the car, and no one has shot him yet.  
  
Ariadne opens the door and stares at him for a few seconds before grabbing his arm and pulling him inside. He stands there and waits as Ariadne turns back to the house and shouts, “hi! Arthur’s here!”  
  
“Arthur?” June’s voice calls.  
  
“What the hell?” That’s Eames.  
  
“Oh my God,” Ariadne says, turning to Arthur and hugging him. He can’t really answer the hug, not still holding his suitcase, but Ariadne doesn’t seem to mind. Then she takes a step back and watches him with narrowed eyes. “You haven’t been eating properly.”  
  
“Yes, I have.”  
  
“Don’t believe him,” Eames calls from somewhere the house, closer now, and Arthur slowly places the suitcase on the floor and clenches his fists.  
  
“Are you sleeping properly?” Ariadne asks.  
  
“Well, I’ve been kind of on the run,” Arthur says, “wondering when someone will come and shoot me.”  
  
“I hope never,” Eames says, appearing in the doorway. Behind his back, June is holding one of the kids in her arms. “I thought you wouldn’t dare to come here.”  
  
Arthur clears his throat. Half of Eames’ face is covered in fading bruises and he’s leaning heavily against a walking stick. “I probably shouldn’t have.”  
  
“Nonsense,” Ariadne says. “I’ve been so worried ever since you called me from Buenos Aires and said I shouldn’t worry.”  
  
“I should probably go to a hotel, though,” Arthur says, “just in case…”  
  
“Yeah,” Eames says, “yeah, we can book a hotel room. But not right away. Can you just, I don’t know, can you just sit down for a second?”  
  
“Yeah,” Arthur says and starts walking to the living room, only then he has to walk past Eames who’s still lingering at the doorway. The kid in June’s arms starts crying and June disappears with her, but Ariadne is still there, right behind Arthur’s back. He should walk past Eames.  
  
“Hi,” Eames says.  
  
Arthur stops. “I’m… you look awful.”  
  
Eames chews on his lower lip. “Thank you.”  
  
“I meant… I’m sorry about that.”  
  
“It wasn’t your fault at all,” Eames says. “And I don’t mind too much, since apparently it’s the reason I get to see you after four months.”  
  
“You shouldn’t have, you know. Got caught.”  
  
“My leg is going to be just fine. Well, maybe I’m not going to be good at running. But let’s be honest, it never was my biggest strength.”  
  
“Listen, boys,” Ariadne says, “come to the kitchen in five minutes. I’m going to make coffee.”  
  
Then she goes.  
  
Arthur takes a deep breath.  
  
“What, aren’t you going to kiss me?” Eames asks in an easy voice. “Is it my face? Don’t you think I’m handsome anymore?”  
  
“I think,” Arthur says and clears his throat, “maybe later.”  
  
“Arthur.”  
  
“I haven’t seen you in four months.”  
  
Eames stares at him for a while and then nods. “But surely you know that I’m coming to stay at the hotel with you.”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“Is it okay?”  
  
“Yeah,” Arthur says and then places his palm on Eames’ arm, as lightly as he can, it must be tiring to stand with the injured leg. Eames’ skin feels familiar against Arthur’s palm. “It’s fine.”  
  
“Ariadne thinks we’re together,” Eames says in a whisper. “I don’t really know why.”  
  
Arthur bites his lip. “It’s okay.”  
  
“So, you won’t mind terribly if at some point I’ll have to kiss you.”  
  
“I seriously doubt you’re well enough to kiss me.”  
  
“You’d be surprised,” Eames says, then falters and grimaces. Arthur grabs his shoulders and feels him breathing hard in and out. “Shit. This thing with my leg… I think I should sit down.”  
  
“The kitchen,” Arthur says and grabs Eames’ elbow.  
  
“You don’t have to walk me,” Eames says, “I’m not a dog.”  
  
“I’m not going to let you fall over and break your nose.”  
  
Eames laughs. “Yeah, you wouldn’t like that, right? Because you think my nose is _adorable_. Well, please, Arthur, would you walk me to the kitchen?”  
  
  
**  
  
  
“It’s going to have to go public and legal at some point,” Ariadne says.  
  
“That’s not in military’s interests at all,” June says.  
  
“But the thing is, it’s already out there,” Ariadne says, “it’s just that there’s no regulation, not really, and that just leaves it open for criminals.”  
  
“Like ourselves,” Eames says, filling his mouth with blueberry pie and then going on: “ _But_ the thing is, you really want it to go legal so that you might have a chance to build your cities without going to jail.”  
  
Ariadne sits back in the chair and smiles.  
  
“I’ve never been to jail,” Eames says, “or, well, two weeks in a country I shall not name. But I managed to bribe the guards. It wasn’t too bad.”  
  
“It’s not like you aren’t in trouble anyway,” June says.  
  
“My dear June,” Eames says, his left hand coming to rest on Arthur’s thigh under the table. Arthur tries not to flinch. “When Ariadne told me she had met you or, when Ariadne told me, and I quote, that she had met an _incredibly clever and amazing woman_ , I told her she should think twice before she married you and that actually she should probably marry someone a little dumb, if she wanted to keep on building cities in the dreams. And when I met you, I knew at once that you wouldn’t stand our bullshit.”  
  
June rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling. “And when she asked me to marry her and I said yes, I told her I wasn’t going to stand your bullshit. And she said, and I quote, that building imaginary cities in the dreams means nothing to her compared to living an actual life with me.”  
  
“Oh,” Eames says, turning to stare at Ariadne, “I’m surprised. I didn’t know you were such a romantic.”  
  
“Yes, you knew,” Ariadne says, taking another slice of the blueberry pie. “It takes one to know one and all that.”  
  
“Speaking of which,” June says, “Ariadne’s been planning your wedding. I just thought you should know.”  
  
“I haven’t really proposed yet,” Eames says.  
  
“I have faith in you,” Ariadne says and then turns to Arthur. “You’re quiet. Everything alright?”  
  
“Yeah,” Arthur says. Eames’ fingers stop drawing circles on his thigh. “I’m just tired. And… relieved.”  
  
“I think we should get to the hotel,” Eames says.  
  
“Okay,” Ariadne says, watching them over the table. “But you’re going to come back, right? You aren’t going to just disappear.”  
  
“I hope not,” Eames says with his best smile. Under the table, Arthur grabs Eames’ wrist before he can pull his hand away. It’s surprisingly easy, getting his fingers entangled with Eames’. “Thank you for the blueberry pie. It was great. And thank you for the –“  
  
“Don’t bother,” Ariadne says, “if Arthur’s your boyfriend now, I’m going to be your best friend. Of course we took you in.”  
  
  
**  
  
  
It’s not raining anymore but the day is still grey. Eames has the bruised side of his face towards Arthur and Arthur keeps his hands steady on the wheel and starts the engine.  
  
“I didn’t think you’d come,” Eames says after a few minutes of silence. “I thought you’d be too careful. You couldn’t know if they’re still looking for you.”  
  
“So, you don’t know either.”  
  
“No.” Eames’ voice is somehow very small. It’s disorienting. “I tried to fix it for the both of us. But, I don’t know.”  
  
“You tried to fix it by getting yourself beaten up and shot at.”  
  
“I tried to fix it with money,” Eames says, “the rest was just, I don’t know, I suppose they think it’s included. Standard procedure or something like that. And please, you know I love it when you’re angry at me, but I can’t take it right now. My leg hurts like hell.”  
  
“Fine. I’ll save it for later.”  
  
“I didn’t think you’d come.”  
  
“Well, I’m here.”  
  
“I can see it,” Eames says with a sigh. “Thank God you’re here.”  
  
“You said you tried to fix it with money. You can’t possibly have enough money to make a difference.”  
  
“At that point I was already quite a mess, you know, bleeding onto the floor from my leg, and my face was swollen enough that I couldn’t see with my left eye. So maybe I didn’t look much of a threat then. Not anyone important enough to be killed. And I had some money.”  
  
“From what?”  
  
“From doing shady jobs in the dreamshare, you idiot.”  
  
“I thought you liked gambling.”  
  
“It’s lost some of its charm over the years. And, I don’t know. I’ve been wondering what to do with the money. It’s not like I enjoy expensive clothes or expensive cars like yourself. I like to blend in.”  
  
“You could never blend in.”  
  
“But I can pretend, for some time at least,” Eames says, “and it helps if I’m driving an old Toyota and wearing clothes I bought in a supermarket.”  
  
Arthur takes a slow breath. _In a supermarket._  
  
“Anyway, I’m glad you agreed to share a hotel room with me. I wasn’t sure you would.”  
  
“I didn’t mind the last time, either.”  
  
“Yeah, but I didn’t give you much of a choice back then, did I?” Eames says, watching him. “I just marched in and told everyone I was your boyfriend. That’s not, I don’t know, very subtle.”  
  
“I didn’t think you were worried about being subtle.”  
  
“I am, sometimes,” Eames says. “But the other thing, the thing we talked about, do you remember, but we didn’t have lube and condoms.”  
  
“Yeah,” Arthur says. His knuckles are turning white on the wheel.  
  
“I don’t think it’s going to happen anytime soon,” Eames says, watching the road now. “I might poke you with the stick.”  
  
Arthur bites his lip. “Okay.”  
  
Eames turns to him. “Are you laughing at me? Really?”  
  
“Not at all,” he says, smiling just a little. “Of course not. I’m… you know I hate that you went through that.”  
  
“Yeah, I know,” Eames says, leaning closer, “but you think it’s funny that I can’t fuck you now, do you? And you like to imagine me trying, climbing onto the bed with my stick, trying to keep my leg steady and failing, and trying to keep you in place, you slippery bastard –“  
  
Arthur laughs.  
  
“It’s not funny,” Eames says, placing a hand on his thigh, “it’s not funny at all. Just think about it. We might try to do it against the wall, you pushing your elbows against it and bending down for me, very nicely, and I’d try to keep myself steady with my stick and all, but I’d just keep falling all over you, you poor thing, my very hard cock poking you at inappropriate places – eyes on the road, darling, you’re driving.”  
  
Arthur returns his gaze on the road. “Keep your fingers away from my cock or I’ll pull over and we’ll never get to the hotel.”  
  
“You could give me hand job here,” Eames says, “this is a nice suburb, they won’t mind.”  
  
“Or I could take a bus and leave you here, sitting in the car. I bet you can’t drive with that leg.”  
  
“You can’t take a _bus_ , darling, you don’t know how they work.”  
  
“Eames.”  
  
Eames’ hand is on Arthur’s knee now. “Yeah?”  
  
“Thank you.”  
  
“No need for that,” Eames says, but his voice is serious now.  
  
“I should’ve taken at least half of what you took.”  
  
“Like, maybe they could’ve beaten me up and shot you at the leg,” Eames says, “or shot the both of us at a toe and kicked us in the face but not this badly.”  
  
“Yeah, something like that.”  
  
“No, I think it’s better that one of us is fine, in case they come after us again,” Eames says. “And besides, we don’t know if you have the same treatment coming for you.”  
  
“Yeah. I’ll be looking over my shoulder. It’s not like I wasn’t already.”  
  
“I was just wondering,” Eames says slowly, “at this point, what would you say if we stayed in the same place for a while? I know I suck at running but I can still shoot. And I’m done hiding.”  
  
“Sounds good,” Arthur says.  
  
“Really?”  
  
“Really.”  
  
“You aren’t going to disappear?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Okay,” Eames says and stays quiet for a few seconds. “Do you think that we could stay here for a bit? Near to Ariadne and June? Because I have a new tactic. I thought, what if I got June to try shared dreaming, and then she’d fall in love with the thrill of it and let Ariadne build her cities.”  
  
“That’s a terrible plan.”  
  
“I know.” Eames clears his throat. “It’s just, I like being around them. They have a home and all that.”  
  
“It’s fine, we can stay,” Arthur says slowly, “but I thought… I haven’t been in Chicago for almost six months.”  
  
“That’s your home? I thought you’d grown fond of Berlin.”  
  
“Berlin’s in Europe,” Arthur says and then quickly glances at Eames.  
  
“And Ariadne and June are in Europe as well,” Eames says.  
  
Arthur shrugs.  
  
“And I’m in Europe. Or I’ve been a lot in the past few years.”  
  
“It’s not that I like to be on the same continent with you.”  
  
“Arthur.”  
  
Arthur clears his throat. “Anyway, if it’s okay, maybe we could go to Chicago for a while after we leave Paris. I left a few houseplants with my neighbor six months ago. I’d like to check if they’re alive.”  
  
“We?”  
  
“If you don’t want to come –“  
  
“Of course I want to,” Eames says, “I just meant, it’s a _we_ now, then?”  
  
“I suppose so,” Arthur says. His voice is dry and thin, and Eames is definitely going to notice.  
  
“Great,” Eames says, reaching for the car radio. “So, what kind of music do you like? You never told me. You always said it was _classified information_ , you idiot.”  
  
  
**  
  
  
Arthur’s sitting on the bed, watching as Eames tumbles with his trousers in the bathroom. He’s trying to lean on the stick and undress at the same time and it’s not going well.  
  
“If you ask me if I need help,” Eames says, not looking at Arthur, “I’m going to poke you in the eye with my stick.”  
  
“Scary.”  
  
“I’m trying to be.” Eames glances at Arthur. “Actually, could you come here for a second? This is going to take fucking hours otherwise.”  
  
“Of course,” Arthur says, standing up. He walks to Eames and then undresses Eames’ trousers and underpants, and Eames leans against the edge of the sink and breathes in steady rhythm. “Are you going to take a shower?”  
  
“I was,” Eames says, gritting his teeth. “Ariadne had this plastic stool for me that I could sit on. But I’m afraid we can’t drag the armchair to the shower without pissing off the staff.”  
  
“I can come with you. I’ll hold you up.”  
  
Eames clears his throat. “Arthur, that’s not your job.”  
  
“I bet you’d do the same.”  
  
Eames blinks at him. “I would. I definitely would, and then I’d make the best of it and grope your ass.”  
  
“Fine, that’s what I’m going to do then,” Arthur says. “Just let me undress first. Do you want to sit?”  
  
“Yeah,” Eames says, “please. It’s just that this fucking thing is worse in the evenings.”  
  
Arthur helps Eames to sit down on the closed toilet seat and then undresses right there, because what’d be the point of not letting Eames see, anyway? At least his hands are steady even though his heart is racing a little.  
  
“I like your clothes, by the way,” Eames says, “very casual.”  
  
“I tried not to draw attention.”  
  
“So you chose to look exceptionally good in jeans and a pullover.”  
  
“Exceptionally good?”  
  
“I’m trying to flirt with you.”  
  
“You already have me naked in the bathroom,” Arthur says, walking to Eames and helping him to stand up. “So that you know, I don’t know what I’m doing here.”  
  
“Me, neither,” Eames says, stretching his left arm over Arthur’s shoulders. “Just try not to kick me at my injured leg.”  
  
“I’ll try,” Arthur says and gets them both to the shower cubicle somehow. Eames leans his shoulder against the tile wall and takes a firm grip on Arthur’s arm, and Arthur sets the water running.  
  
“You could kiss me, you know. If you wanted.”  
  
“Now?”  
  
Eames’ grip on his arm tightens. “Or grope my ass. Whatever you like.”  
  
Arthur steps closer to him and then grabs his hips so that he doesn’t fall. He has bruises all over, not just on his face, but the face is the worst, as if they were really aiming for it. It looks like no matter how gently Arthur’s going to touch him, it’s going to hurt anyway.  
  
“Arthur,” Eames says, licking his lips,” just…”  
  
Arthur keeps his left hand on Eames’ hips, keeping him steady against the wall, and raises his right hand to grab Eames’ chin. Just lightly. Just so that Eames knows what he’s doing. Eames’ fingers dig into the skin on Arthur’s back and Arthur leans closer until there’s no space left. He kisses Eames on the mouth.  
  
“Oh, fuck,” Eames says, blinking rapidly, when Arthur pulls back a little, “ _fuck_ , that’s… do that again.”  
  
“You aren’t going to fall over?”  
  
“I hate you,” Eames says, smiling and breathing hard. His cock is half-hard against Arthur’s thigh. “I hate you so much.”  
  
“No, you don’t.”  
  
“No,” Eames says, “not at all. Kiss me again.”  
  
“Maybe it’d be better if I kissed you in bed.”  
  
“Yeah, that could work,” Eames says, his eyelids flickering, “but once more, come on, it’s been four months.”  
  
“We didn’t really do that much kissing back then,” Arthur says but kisses him anyway.  
  
“Yeah, we did,” Eames says, “you’re remembering it wrong. I remember nothing but the kissing and the amazing sex.”  
  
“It was just a few hand jobs and blow jobs, “Arthur says, sliding his hand behind Eames’ back so that he can keep Eames steady against his own body. “It was nothing special. I didn’t do anything special.”  
  
“But it was you,” Eames says, “darling, it was _you._ Now, could you please kiss me a few more times and then keep me on my one good foot when I try to very discreetly wash myself a little? I think I’m going to get a cramp on my good leg.”  
  
  
**  
  
  
It takes Arthur a few seconds to remember where he is: in Paris, in a hotel room with Eames, who’s still asleep, drooling on the pillow. The bruises on Eames’ face look gentler in the dark. Arthur crawls out of the bed as quietly as he can, takes his gun and stops by the window. There’s barely any traffic.  
  
“What the hell, Arthur?”  
  
“Go back to sleep.”  
  
“Should I be worried?” Eames asks, rustling the sheets. “Is someone there?”  
  
“No. I don’t think so. It’s just, I woke up and…”  
  
“You wanted to check.” Eames rolls onto his back and takes a deep breath. “I get it. Just come back when you’re ready.”  
  
“Where did they find you?”  
  
“I was in Milan.”  
  
“Did you do it on purpose?”  
  
“Arthur.”  
  
There’s no one in the street. Arthur pulls the curtains closed and goes to wash his face in the bathroom.  
  
“I was tired of hiding,” Eames says, “and I wanted to see you.”  
  
“So you got beaten up.”  
  
“So I made them find me so that I could try to solve this.”  
  
“I’m not angry,” Arthur says, “it’s just…”  
  
“It’s just that you don’t really like to think about what could’ve happened,” Eames says in a steady voice, “like, they could’ve killed me, and then who would’ve you flirted with? I don’t really know. It’s a good thing I’m still alive.”  
  
“It doesn’t feel like just flirting anymore.”  
  
Eames is silent for a few seconds. “No, it doesn’t.”  
  
“I’m going to take a piss,” Arthur says and closes the bathroom door. Surely it’d be fucking crazy to think that he and Eames could have something like a relationship. He would’ve never thought it possible. He wouldn’t have fucking dared to try. But if he’s being completely honest with himself, now it seems that maybe they are already in a relationship and he just missed the point where it began.  
  
He flushes the toilet and goes back to the bedroom. Eames is still in bed but shifts when Arthur sits on the mattress. “I’d sit up if I hadn’t got my leg shot,” Eames says.  
  
“Just stay where you are,” Arthur says, clenches his fists and then slowly places his right hand on Eames’ shoulder. “Why the hell did you tell Peter and Marianne you were my boyfriend?”  
  
“In Buenos Aires?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“You know why,” Eames says, reaching for Arthur’s arm and running the flat of his palm on it.  
  
“Yeah, you wanted them not to wonder why you followed me there. But I meant –“  
  
“I know,” Eames says, his hand coming to rest on Arthur’s, “I _know._ And I meant, you know why.”  
  
“But if you wanted –,” Arthur takes a deep breath. “If you thought that we might actually, I don’t know, have something, _surely_ there’re easier ways to ask than follow me to a job and pretend to be my boyfriend.”  
  
“Arthur,” Eames says, “I just panicked. I knew you were in trouble and I had to improvise.”  
  
“So, you weren’t asking –“  
  
“I wasn’t asking if you wanted to do it for real,” Eames says, “but I’m kind of asking now.”  
  
“Really?”  
  
“I should warn you, though. It’s been a decade since I was anyone’s boyfriend and I don’t remember how to do it anymore.”  
  
“I think you were doing just fine, back in Buenos Aires.”  
  
“Or you’re easily impressed because you like me so much.”  
  
“Could be,” Arthur says and lays down on the bed next to Eames. “I really like you a lot.”  
  
“I know,” Eames says. “I can’t understand why. It’s a miracle.”  
  
“You just have very nice shoulders.”  
  
Eames grins.  
  
“And you’re surprisingly kind.”  
  
“I do try my best to hide it.”  
  
“There’s no need to.”  
  
“No, I think not,” Eames says. “That’s odd.”  
  
“So,” Arthur says, shifting until his arm brushes against Eames’, “what do we do now?”  
  
“I think we could tell Ariadne that she can keep on planning that wedding,” Eames says in a light voice, “she’s got to have something exciting to do, right? So that she doesn’t fall into illegal stuff again and piss off her wife. And then we could go to Chicago. You could show me your place. And your dead houseplants. And I think there’s a supermarket in Chicago. I’ve been meaning to buy condoms and lube. But before that we should go, I don’t know, on a date.”  
  
“Sounds good.”  
  
“Great,” Eames says. “Do you want coffee? Because I want coffee. Could you get me some coffee, darling?”


End file.
